For the record...

Mon, 09/14/2015 - 10:01 -- Astod

I would like to wrap my words around this page-
outstretch my arms so I can hold up the stage below me
tell it- 
tell everyone
things will not be this bad for too much longer.. 
But I've never really been much of a liar
just a melancholy toned razor tongue
with a quick wit and keen punchlines
I am all and I am nothing in the same breath. 
Breathe. I try to track how many I take 
but there's too much breathing and not enough oxygen
these arms are now making me choke
held too tightly around this stage
that has become my throat
these words are slipping
they have become my will, my oath 
my proof that something exists
and as it is all drifting and drifting
I am reminded-
nothing does. 
My mind plays tricks on itself
my left brain likes to tie a lasso around my right
until all of the creativity is squeezed beneath my toes
under a microphone, 
in front of a laptop, 
for everyone to see
and laughs when it realizes this is all I have. 
Then my right brain retaliates 
excellerates into oblivion 
and becomes one with my anxiety
it speeds up everything in my thinking process I own
until I am the one-
spinning and swerving and crashing 
until I am the one-
manic and crying and thinking about death
and it laughs when I'm clutching my legs again
when it thinks it's won the battle
and see I wake up everyday and fight. 
There is no beautiful music to play-
no genre to this madness
You can spin me like I'm on a record player
and watch me slowly turn. 
There is no going backwards for me
only forward and repeat
and my history sounds a little like
a skipped disk in the CD slot
because you keep replaying the same parts
over and over and o-over and o-o-o-o-ver again. 
This cycle plays on repeat for days on end
until eventually everyone gets tired of it
and it's thrown away-
These arms let go. 
I am left speechless again. 
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting
for the soft spoken tap of the keys to reel me back in
whispering a string quartet of desire and longing
only to watch my mind begin the game again. 
Gaining only scratches on my surface-
Skip me. 
I don't wanna play anymore.

This poem is about: 
Me

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